Miami in November
by triedunture
Summary: Crossover with Nip Tuck. Drs. House and Wilson meet Drs. Troy and McNamara at a medical conference. Slash and stuff.
1. Chapter 1

"We can't, House," Wilson protested. "I'm presenting at this conference. If we skip out on it, Cuddy will kill us both."

"She should have considered that when she paid for this kick-ass pad," House drawled, stretching out on the luxurious bed in the hotel room. Wilson sighed, though if pressed, he'd have to agree their rooms were pretty sweet. Miami didn't mess around.

Instead of the standard Ramada-esque accommodations, the Miami conference had arranged for rooms in the Art Deco district at a hotel whose name…Wilson wasn't even sure of. Cuddy had taken care of all the travel plans, and the exterior of the place seemed too posh to advertise its name.

Wilson was afraid to touch anything because it all looked delicate and expensive. He frowned at the white piece of ceramic on the nightstand.

"Is that a vase? What is that?" he asked.

House lifted his head enough to glance over at it. "Ashtray?"

They stared a little longer before Wilson remembered the argument. "We can't play hooky," he said firmly. "Get dressed."

"I am dressed," House groused. Wilson looked at his rumpled T-shirt and cargo shorts pointedly. "It's South Beach!" House protested. "No one's going to show up in a suit."

"I am," Wilson retorted.

House made a face. "Yeah, I wasn't going to tell you, but the other kids think you're kind of lame when you do that. Come on! You don't present for another three hours," he cajoled. "There's the pool, the hot tub, the beach, the…"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "We could have that stuff in New Jersey."

"Not in November," House reminded him. He kicked his sandaled feet like a small child throwing a temper tantrum. "Skip it! Two hours, that's all I ask."

"Absolutely not," Wilson said, perching his hands on his hips. House gave him a Look.

Ten minutes later, Wilson found himself in a lounge chair by the sparkling blue pool, wearing his swim trunks. Beautiful women in tiny bikinis were lounging about too, but that didn't cheer the oncologist one bit. This wasn't New Jersey, and a good-looking thirty-something doctor apparently wasn't the cream of the crop anymore.

Wilson glared at the impeccably well-dressed man a few feet away. The man spoke so loudly, Wilson had already overheard that he, too, was a doctor. And he was also thirty-something. However, this doctor was ridiculously, perfectly, over-the-top gorgeous. The blonde in the pink bikini was completely enraptured.

Miami did not mess around.

"Isn't this the life?" House sighed from the adjacent lounger, folding his hands under his head and adjusting his sunglasses. He didn't seem to care that he was obviously the oldest person in a five-mile radius; he still lowered his shades and winked at the young girls passing by. "I could get used to this."

"Yeah, I bet," Wilson murmured, not bothering to hide his disapproval. He was still watching the doctor across the way. The man was an artist; Wilson had never seen a woman fall for an act so quickly.

The scene was ruined, however, when another man in a brown suit approached.

"Christian!" he called. "Where the hell have you been? Have you even set foot in the conference room yet?"

The other man, Christian, turned around with a sigh, holding up one finger to signal the woman that he'd return his attention to her in a moment. "I'm a little busy right now, Sean."

"Look, I may be the one giving this presentation," this Sean hissed, "but could you at least try to put in an appearance? Pretend that medicine matters to you? Because, I'll tell you something, our reputation could use a little boost from our peers."

The woman in the pink bikini seemed to be losing interest, and sauntered off to speak to another man. Christian didn't notice.

"Peers?" Sharp, expensive sunglasses lowered to reveal bright blue eyes. They looked familiar, Wilson thought as he glanced over at House, who was reading a trashy book. "These doctors treat old ladies with influenza and teenagers with herpes. They don't give a damn about plastic surgery."

Plastic surgery? "Doctor McNamara?" Wilson blurted out. He'd been studying the schedule on the flight, and the McNamara lecture on reconstruction for breast cancer survivors had caught his attention. He had been looking forward to it.

The man in the suit turned and looked down at him. "I'm sorry, have we…?"

"Dr. Wilson, PPTH, oncology," Wilson said, extending his hand.

"Ah, yes." McNamara gave him a dazzling smile and shook his offered hand. "The abstract on your testicular cancer case sounds fascinating. I can't wait to hear you present."

"Same here, same here," Wilson said, finally realizing they were still vigorously shaking hands. He let go of the other man's hand and gave a sheepish grin in return.

"Usually when pen pals meet in real life, it's a disappointment," House muttered from his shaded lounge chair. He stuffed his iPod buds into his ears. "But you two seem to be doing fine."

"Dr. McNamara, my colleague, Dr. House from diagnostics," Wilson said by way of introduction. "I'll warn you not to shake hands. He bites."

"Ruff," House growled, turning his attention back to his copy of Lesbian Erotica Volume 5.

"And this is my partner, Dr. Troy," McNamara said, turning to his well-dressed counterpart. Troy, or rather, Christian, had lost interest in the conversation and was a few feet away, ordering a drink at the bar. "Well, you're lucky he wandered off," he said with a self-conscious chuckle. "He's a crotch sniffer."

"I can sympathize," Wilson said, rubbing the back of his neck. It was too hot; his hair was damp with sweat.

"Listen," McNamara said, glancing between House and Troy. "The bar in the lobby is quieter. Would you like to grab a drink?"

"Sure, that would be…that would be great." Wilson scooped up his white T-shirt from the warm concrete and tugged it over his head. "House, I'll be back in time to get ready to present, okay?"

House's only answer was a light snore. The book had fallen to his chest, and his eyes were closed behind his dark glasses. Wilson sighed. "Well, then, lead the way."

An hour and a half later, McNamara clinked his third empty glass on the bar. "So the kid had swallowed a toothpick?" he gasped. "And he didn't mention that? I mean, toothpicks are hard to swallow!"

The bar wasn't busy at this time in the afternoon; besides the two doctors, no one else was having a drink. The bartender had even wandered off with a tray of dirty glasses after making sure they were taken care of.

Wilson shook his head. "I know. Bizarre. We all just assumed an infection, but House is…different."

"Makes my practice sound very staid," the surgeon laughed. "I had no idea that Princeton was so exciting."

"Oh, come on," Wilson protested. "I'm sure all the beautiful women who come by your clinic more than make up for the usual drudgery."

McNamara, no, Sean, Wilson remembered, just sighed and toyed with the rim of his glass. "That's a, uh, perk that benefits Christian more than me." He held up his hand, showcasing his plain gold wedding band.

"I understand completely." Wilson rotated his own wedding ring around and around his finger.

"Married long?" Sean asked, taking another long pull from his beer.

"Not…comparatively." Wilson lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "It's my third marriage. You?"

"Almost twenty years," Sean said, his eyes distant. A moment of quiet settled between them, with Sean lost in thought and Wilson watching him intently. "Actually," Sean gave a bitter laugh, "things are just about over between me and Julia."

Wilson's eyes went wide.

"Sorry. Too much information, right?" Sean gave a lop-sided smile.

"No. No, it's just," Wilson's brow furrowed, "my wife and I are in the middle of a divorce too." He smiled then. "But I'm getting very good at it. Need any tips?"

Sean rubbed the back of his neck in a nervous gesture, one that Wilson recognized from his own habits. "God, I hope not, James. I hope not." It was strange to hear someone using his first name; it sounded exotic.

He groped for something supportive to say. "At least you have your work to keep you going," Wilson said. "You're obviously very talented."

Sean quirked his lips into a smile. "I'm a glorified makeup artist. It's guys like you who are doing real work."

"Hey, everyone needs to look good, right?" Wilson was suddenly very self-conscious of his mussed hair, his sweaty clothes, and his extra post-Thanksgiving pounds. He glanced down at his offending stomach with a frown.

Sean laughed. "No, I think some people just need to look better." He tilted his head and gazed at Wilson's face. "Tell me what you don't like about yourself, James."

"Well, it's not that I, uh, well," Wilson stuttered. "I don't think I need surgery, but, you know, I'm getting older." He peeled away a corner of the label on his beer bottle. "Just the normal things, right? The lines and wrinkles and all."

Sean set his glass down on the bar top again and slowly reached his hands out. "May I?" he asked, his palms hovering over Wilson's jaw.

Wilson regarded him warily for a second, but Sean just smiled. "Just for kicks," he promised. "I don't have my knife on me."

"Yeah, sure." Wilson leaned forward a bit and allowed Sean to touch his jaw, framing his face with his strong, steady hands. Excellent surgeon's hands, Wilson thought idly. Sean turned Wilson this way and that, studying the planes and angles of his face in the dim light.

"High cheekbones, very nice," Sean murmured almost to himself. "Smooth forehead, hairline looks good. Some early signs of crow's feet, but don't worry; it makes guys look distinguished." He ran his fingertips alongside the corners of Wilson's mouth. "A little bit of stress is showing here, though." He traced the light laugh lines next to the lips. "Other than that, fantastic shape, all around. I'd give anything to have skin like yours."

"Thanks," Wilson said, unsure of what else to say. Sean's hands were still warm against his cheek.

"I know I told you to get over that homophobia," Christian Troy's voice rang out in the empty bar, "and your fear of transsexuals, but I didn't expect you to find yourself a husband, Sean."

The surgeon jerked his hands back as if burned, turning to see his partner leaning in the doorway to the lobby.

"Just a friendly examination," Sean spoke in his defense.

"Thinking of having some work done, Dr. Wilson?" Christian pushed off from the doorjamb, hands in his pockets, his stride reminding Wilson of an animal. "Sean has a tendency to go easy on male clients. Totally sexist. Perhaps you'd like to schedule a quick lift before you go back home?"

"I think I'll trust Dr. McNamara's opinion," Wilson replied. He felt his face flush slightly.

"Up to you," the other doctor said curtly, turning to his partner. "I was going to take your advice and put in an appearance at the conference. Coming?"

"Right behind you," Sean assured. When Christian turned to leave in that liquid stride, Sean leaned forward to whisper, "Sorry about him. He can get a little territorial." He grinned widely. "But dog owners like us are used to it, right?"

The corner of Wilson's mouth lifted, revealing a boyish dimple. "And you have the burden of a purebred on top of everything."

"Well, if you ever tire of your old mutt," Sean smoothly flicked a business card out of his breast pocket, "you should give me a call and commiserate."

"Absolutely," Wilson said slowly, taking the card carefully between his fingertips.

The surgeon stood. "See you at your presentation," he said with a smile, walking quickly to catch up with his partner.

Wilson knocked back the warm remains of his beer and tucked the card in the small pocket of his swim trunks. He wandered back through the lobby and outside to the pool deck. In the scant time he'd been inside, the blue skies had clouded over, and the thick smell of rain hung in the air. Everyone had left the poolside except for the still-snoozing, scruffy man sprawled on the chaise with his cane on the ground near by.

"House, it looks like rain," Wilson said softly, shaking the man's shoulder. "We better go back in. I need to shower and dress."

House blinked lazily up at him. "Where did you stroll off to?" he asked.

Wilson raised his ample brows and opened his mouth as if searching for the right words. "I think," he finally said, "I just got hit on by that plastic surgeon."

"You minx," House said with a grin. "You still got it in you." He groped for his cane and levered himself onto his feet.

"I don't want to toot my own horn," Wilson said, following House's limping gait back inside, "but he said, in his professional opinion, that I was kind of hot."

"Oh, I see." House swiped his key card for access to their room. "He went to med school for how many years?"

Wilson rolled his eyes and followed House into the room. He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on one of the two queen beds. "It was just nice to hear, is all. I mean, I'll be forty next month, you know?" His fingers worked at the laces on his trunks.

House's hand, still greasy with suntan lotion, rested on his bare stomach. Wilson smirked as he felt the other man press against him from behind, his cane a solid presence beside their legs.

"I don't care," House muttered against his ear. "I think you're…"

"What?" Wilson turned his head slightly, letting House's mouth touch his jaw.

He felt House's grin on his skin, and the hand that was holding the cane wrapped around his waist as well. He leaned back in House's embrace, letting the other man's soft T-shirt rub against his back. House leaned forward into him, and they supported each other's weight.

"I think you're the prettiest girl at the ball," House said in a high-pitched voice dripping with sweetness.

Wilson laughed. "Prettier than Dr. Troy?"

"He might win the swimsuit portion of the competition," House said with a sigh, "but you have the talent part sewn up."

"No, I think you'll beat me on that front," Wilson said, dropping a kiss on the side of House's neck. "Maybe if we combined our scores…"

"All this talk about drag queen pageantry has me turned on," House deadpanned. "You getting dressed or are we going to take a spin in the bathroom's whirlpool?"

Wilson titled his head back to rest it on House's shoulder, eyes on the ceiling. "Whirlpool," he finally said, already feeling House's deft fingers pulling his swim trunks off.

He smiled. Miami didn't mess around. But neither did House.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hurry up, House," Wilson called from the hotel bathroom, fiddling with his left cufflink until it clicked into place. "We're going to be late."

"_You're _going to be late," House corrected, still lounging about between the mussed bed sheets. He stretched his arms over his head languidly, and Wilson glared at him through the crack of the bathroom door. "I'm going to sleep here forever."

Wilson hustled out of the bathroom and grabbed his suit jacket off the back of an armchair. "If you hadn't distracted me with the Jacuzzi tub…" he sighed.

House smirked, but didn't move.

"Get dressed," Wilson said, picking House's rumpled shirt off the floor and throwing it onto his face.

Despite House's protests, the two men made it out of the hotel room and downstairs to the conference. Wilson flipped through his notes as they walked into the assigned room, slowing his pace to keep step with House's limping gait.

"You know that stuff by heart," House muttered, leaning close to Wilson's ear. "Quit fidgeting."

"I hate giving speeches," Wilson sighed, weaving through the small crowd of chattering attendees with his head still bent over his sheaf of papers.

"Do what I do," House said, squeezing past two female doctors from, their badges declared, the Mayo Clinic. "Imagine everyone naked and in the middle of orgasm." One of the women turned to glare at him and he responded with a little salute. "It's okay," he said. "We're professionals."

"Dr. Wilson!" a voice called, disrupting whatever chastisement Wilson was going to aim at House. They turned to see Sean McNamara breaking free from a knot of people, smiling widely. "Good luck up there," he said breathlessly.

"You too." Wilson grinned. "You're set to go right after me, right?"

Sean nodded. "I can't wait to hear about those advances in—"

House rolled his eyes before announcing loudly, "Leg hurts! Got to sit." He turned and worked his way to the nearest row of chairs, slumping into an available seat. He fished the pill bottle out of the pocket of his blazer (Wilson had made him throw it over his Black Crows shirt) and popped the top off. Tossing a single Vicodin into his mouth, he eyed the two doctors in the corner still talking animatedly about skin grafts. "What a couple of nerds," he muttered.

"Aren't they?" a deep voice rumbled. House looked up mid-swallow at the dark, swarthy man towering over him. "Christian Troy," the man said with a bright-white flash of teeth. He extended his hand, which House ignored. "I've heard a lot about you, Dr. House. Seems like everyone at this conference knows about your work."

"I vaguely recall your name coming up today," House said, cocking his head in mock-concentration. "You're either a doctor or a porn star. But hell, it's the twenty-first century; why can't you be both?"

Christian retracted his hand and smoothed his sleek jacket, his smile never leaving his face or his dark blue eyes. "Mind if I take this seat?" he asked, indicating the chair next to House.

House shrugged and moved his cane between his legs, freeing up the adjacent seat. "It's a free country. And I don't discriminate against porn stars." Christian slid into the chair beside him and folded his hands across his stomach, eyes facing forward.

A man stepped up to the microphone on the stage and directed the attendees to find their seats. Wilson took his place on stage, still thumbing through his notes, as the moderator introduced him.

As the man droned on about Wilson's accomplishments, House leaned over towards the plastic surgeon. "So how did you get dragged to this snooze-fest?" he asked.

"My partner," was the terse answer. "You?"

"My…Wilson," House muttered, gesturing to the stage. There was some polite clapping from the audience as Wilson stepped up to the microphone and began his presentation. House huffed in frustration. "Trust me, I'd much rather be slamming back overly-decorated cocktails and frolicking with the bikini babes," he whispered.

A doctor is the row ahead of them turned around and hissed, "Stop talking!" House narrowed his eyes and spat, "Stop cheating on your wife!" The doctor gaped like a stunned goat before slowly turning back without another word.

Christian quirked an eyebrow at House. "The rumors about you are true," he drawled. "You can read minds."

"Ringfinger tan lines," House said with a wave of his hand. "Rookie mistake."

The younger doctor tilted his head with a smirk. "Impressive." He glanced at Wilson on the stage. In the front row, waiting to speak next, was Sean, sitting with rapt attention. Christian fought a yawn. "Hey, you want to slip out to the bar?" he asked House.

The older man perked up at the suggestion. "I've heard this speech about a billion times. Lead the way, Troy."

Just as the lights dimmed for the Power Point slides, the two men snuck their way out the back door and down the hall. They slid into the elevator with matching smug expressions on their faces.

"No, no way," Christian argued, setting his drained glass of Absolut on the marble bar top. He squinted his bleary eyes at House, glancing every so often to the attractive redhead sitting at a table to the right.

"I'll bet you five hundred dollars," House dared, clinking his scotch tumbler down as well and signaling the bartender for a refill.

Christian shook his head and popped an olive in his mouth. "No offense, Dr. House, but this is South Beach. You might be the most attractive man in New Jersey, but the ladies here have different standards." He smiled, showing all of his glossy teeth.

"So bet me five hundred dollars," House repeated, hoisting his new scotch in a toast.

The plastic surgeon eyed him suspiciously, but picked up his full glass too. "What are the terms?" he asked.

"One hour," House said. "Can't leave this bar. Whoever gets the most phone numbers wins."

Christian glanced around the noisy room. The Miami clubbing crowd was just getting started. The bar was filled with dozens of beautiful women clad in brightly-colored, skimpy dresses, ready to begin their wild night.

His kind of people. "I'd be pleased to take your money," he said, clinking his vodka against House's glass. They both drained their drinks in one gulp.

"See you in an hour," House said, grabbing his cane and wandering off into the crowd. He passed a few moderately good-looking women, finally settling on a barstool next to a real knockout. House saw Christian roll his eyes at the seemingly impossible choice, and the younger man turned to smile at the redhead.

House propped his elbow on the bar, tapped his cane against the brass footrest near the floor, and choked back a completely fake sob.

The knockout blonde turned around. House let his lip wobble and even managed to squeeze out a tear. It was easy enough; he just thought about how disappointing the latest season of _24_ was.

"Hey, are you okay?" the woman asked, her brow furrowed in worry.

House wiped his nose across his sleeve with a satisfying sniffle. "I'm sorry," he croaked. "It's just," he looked to the heavens, "… _men_."

"Oh god, sweetie," she said, her hand fluttering to her chest. "What's the matter?"

House nearly broke out in a grin. A soft-hearted southern girl blessed with natural, guilt-inducing beauty and a few too many drinks: the perfect mark for some sympathy.

He tossed his head in Christian's direction. "Sometimes I think he's just playing games with me. Men can be absolute dogs. You see them through thick and thin, all the failed acting gigs…" He pressed his knuckles to his mouth briefly, as if biting back more tears. "I'm a wreck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be bothering a lovely lady with my problems like this. A guy just needs to vent sometimes, you know?"

The blonde peered across the room at Christian, laughing with the redhead. "Is your boyfriend trying to make you jealous with that woman?"

House nodded tightly.

"You poor thing!" She reached for her handbag, a little red leather affair with lots of zippers. "Let me get you a drink. You can talk to me as long as you need to; I know exactly what you're going through."

"That would be ever so kind of you," House said with a watery smile, wondering if he was over-doing it. But the woman beamed back at him.

"Oh, wait," she said. "Janice! Kayla! All you girls, come over here. We're going to buy this guy a few rounds!"

House caught Christian's worried eye at the other end of the bar as a gaggle of women surrounded him. Drinks were poured, dirty jokes were told, and House became quite the little mascot in about fifty minutes. He could actually be very charming if his audience didn't mind the bitter side of his wit, but that seemed to be an asset here. Choruses of "I totally understand" and "Oh no, he didn't" floated from their corner of the bar, sprinkled with peals of laughter every so often.

"Here," the busty blonde breathed, pressing a slip of paper into his hand. "If you ever need to talk."

"If you're ever in Miami again and need someplace to stay," a beautiful Cuban woman said, passing him a cocktail napkin with some digits scrawled on it.

"You say you like art? I have a little gallery," another offered, passing him a business card.

House had some trouble cramming all the bits of paper into his pockets when he finally bid the ladies goodnight. "I'm going to see if I can patch things up," he said with a wink.

"Don't let him walk all over you," the blonde slurred, sloshing her drink over her wrist. "I'll kick his ass!"

House blew her a kiss. "Wouldn't dream of it."

He limped his way through the crowd to where Christian was sitting at the end of the bar, notably alone.

"Where's the redhead?" he asked, glancing around.

Christian toyed with his glass. "She left when she heard in the ladies room that I was treating my rich, disabled boyfriend like crap." He lifted an eyebrow at House. "Any idea why she got that impression?"

"If it makes you feel any better," House said, pulling the stacks of phone numbers from his pockets, "I told them you are excellent in bed." He patted at Christian's slumped shoulder in consolation. "Come on, let's blow that five hundred bucks by draining the mini bar."

The younger man looked around the room, tallied his ruined chances, and smirked. "Sounds like a good idea." They made their way out of the crowded bar amid catcalls from the women in the corner. House gave them a wink, and Christian just sighed and continued through the lobby. They stepped into an empty elevator and House pushed the button for the fifth floor with the tip of his cane.

Christian glanced down at House's cane as the elevator started its slow ascent. "What's the matter with your leg?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the golden metal wall casually.

"Lost a piece of it," House said with a shrug. "What's the matter with your father?"

Christian blinked, suddenly alert. "Excuse me?"

House's face scrunched into a mask of faux-concern. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, "I thought we were sharing painful personal stories. It's not your turn?"

The dark-haired man licked at his lips and raised a finger in the air as if working up to a response, but nothing came out of his mouth.

"That particular swagger of yours," House said by way of explanation. "Your hips scream 'daddy issues.' Only a completely damaged person would try to appear so together." He studied Christian's reddening face. "Am I right?"

"I just wanted to ask," Christian bit out, "if you'd considered any reconstruction for the lost tissue."

"How about I drop the questions about your childhood trauma and you drop my leg?" House suggested as the doors dinged open. He hobbled into the hallway with a jaunty, if slightly drunken, step.

Christian followed after a moment's hesitation. "Makes me wonder, if your leg was still intact, perhaps we'd share that same swagger," he growled. House paused to look over his shoulder at him, his icy blue eyes glaring. Christian laughed. "Takes one to know one. Rookie mistake."

"You obviously went to the Son of a Bitch School of Medicine," House muttered. He looked Christian up and down as if measuring him against something. Finally, he jerked his head towards his room's door. "Let's get wasted."

"We already are," Christian said, but grinned anyway. "The wives will kill us."

"I'm telling you, James," Sean continued. "Once you get your hands on one of those new microsurgery machines, you'll never go back to the old models."

Wilson patted through his pockets until he found his key card and pressed the appropriate button. The shiny gold elevator doors closed, leaving just the two of them headed up to the fifth floor. "I'd love to work with one," he sighed, "but it's just not in my department's budget."

Sean shrugged and reached up to loosen his silver and blue striped tie. "The guy who services ours, I'm known him since college. I could get you one at cost."

Wilson's eyebrows rose up his forehead. "Really?" he asked, unable to keep the skepticism out of his tone. "Because I've got a bridge you would love."

"I'm serious," Sean said, whacking his arm. "Just because a patient gets sick in New England doesn't mean their surgical scars need to be ugly. They deserve the same care we give patients here."

"That's nice of you, but," Wilson lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck, "I don't think many of our patients could afford that kind of procedure." He looked up at Sean with a sort of embarrassed look. "It's a teaching hospital. We run a free clinic. Not a ton of millionaire socialites."

The elevator doors whooshed open with a happy sound and the two men started down the hall.

"Look, I've been hounding Christian to do more pro bono work," the surgeon began. "How about we cut a deal? If you get an extreme case, send it our way."

Wilson stopped short, studying Sean's face with a squinted gaze. His hand stayed steady in front of him, parallel to the ground. He made a slicing motion with it. "You'd do that…for free?" he asked.

Sean nodded. "Who's more deserving of a fresh start than a cancer survivor?" he said quietly, trying but failing to keep the grin on his lips.

In his heart, Wilson knew the man was making this offer out of some sort of guilt. A parent, maybe, or some other loved one had succumbed to cancer, and now he felt obligated to fight it where ever it manifested. Even if it was in a penniless single mother in New Jersey.

But Wilson didn't care. He knew a good deal when he saw one. He smiled and extended his hand.

"I…don't know what to say, Dr. McNamara," he said.

Sean shook his hand warmly. "You don't have to say a thing." He smiled in return and released Wilson's palm.

"Well." Wilson eyed his room door. "This is me."

"Right." Sean looked a little surprised, as if he hadn't known he was following the other doctor all the way to his hotel room. "I'll just, uh, give Christian a call," he said, fishing his cell phone from his coat pocket. "He's my ride."

Wilson nodded goodnight and was about to slip his card into the door slot when a loud chiming noise came from the other side of the door. The two men listened, ears cocked towards the door, to the little song.

"Is that Brittany Spears?" Wilson asked.

Sean's brow furrowed in confusion. "Yeah. Toxic."

"I'll say," Wilson mumbled.

"No, the song. That's Christian's ringtone," Sean said.

With worried glances exchanged, the two men were inside the room in the blink of an eye. On the floor, vibrating across the shag, was Christian's cell phone. The man himself was sprawled on one of the hotel beds, jacket thrown onto the carpet, asleep on his back.

On the other bed was House, still in his jeans and tee, stretched out on his stomach and snoring into a pillow. Two tall empty bottles stood on the nightstand, a monument to their deep sleep. The room was dark, save for the neon lights streaming in from the open window.

"For the love of—" Sean stepped into the bedroom, neatly avoiding the discarded shoes and cane on the floor. He reached his partner's side and shook his shoulder. "Wake up, Christian, we have to go."

Not only did the man not wake up, he rolled over away from the sound of Sean's voice. Sean looked up at Wilson, two spots of color on his cheeks.

"I am so sorry about this," he started stammering.

Wilson threw his hands up to stop him. "No, no. Not a problem, really." He slipped off his suit coat and hung it on the back of a chair before bending to retrieve Christian's jacket and shaking the wrinkles out of it.

Sean dragged a hair through his dark brown hair. "Let me at least roll him onto the floor. So you can get some sleep, I mean."

"You don't have to." Wilson pulled his tie free from his neck and looped it over the chair arm. "It really doesn't change my plans at all." He smirked a little, enjoying the private joke. "Why don't you just grab his keys? I'll make sure he gets home in the morning."

"I would, but…" Sean gave Christian's shoulder one last frustrated smack. "I can't drive a stick."

Wilson paused in the middle of unbuttoning his pale yellow shirt. "You can stay here. I don't mind."

"But where…?"

"Wil." House lifted his head up a half an inch, squinting blearily at them. "That you?"

Wilson leaned down and ran a hand through House's mussed hair. "No, it's a robber. I'm here to steal your pills and dirty books."

House waved a hand in the air. "I'm done with the books. But I need the pills." The waving hand stilled and suddenly snatched a fistful of Wilson's shirt, dragging him down to the bed as House rolled over to face him. "Need other things, too," he mumbled, tilting his head for a kiss.

Wilson laughed nervously. "We have company," he said, indicating Sean with a tip of his head.

House looked at the man standing in the middle of the room. Then he hastily glared at the still-slumbering form of Christian on the nearby bed. "You brought one home too?" he muttered. "It's like the goddamn Gift of the Magi."

Wilson rolled his eyes, still holding himself above House on locked elbows. "A plastic surgeon, it's what I've always wanted. But oh! You had to give up your precious dignity. Exactly how many drinks did you have, anyway?"

Instead of a verbal answer, House gave him a sly smile and a kiss on his nearby wrist. Wilson hesitated for one moment, wondering if his new friend would be bothered by such a small gesture, before leaning forward to place a kiss on House's collarbone.

"I'm not kissing your mouth," he warned. "You smell like a diesel truck from here."

Sean finally managed to say, "This is…I'll just…call a cab." He began backing slowly towards the door.

"Uh oh, awkward," House said in a sing song voice. He tipped his head back over the edge of the mattress and looked at the man upside-down. "Hey, he is kind of hot."

"House..." Wilson said in don't-embarrass-me-in-front-of-this-colleague tone.

"Well, only because he reminds me of _you_, sweetie," House whined with faux sugar in his voice.

"Go to sleep," Wilson ordered, thwacking him lightly in the face with a wayward pillow.

"Yeah, you too, pretty boy," House mumbled through the down filling, motioning to Sean with a flapping hand. He arranged the pillows haphazardly and pulled down Wilson's head to rest on his chest. "Say goodnight, Wilson."

"Goodnight, Wilson," Wilson said with a yawn, letting his eyes slid shut.

"Nerd," House said with affection before also succumbing to sleep.

It was several long minutes later that Sean finally shucked his own coat and kicked off his shoes. He crawled into bed beside Christian, scowling at how little room the taller man had left free.

"Ruin your plans?" Christian's voice, rough with sleep, whispered next to his ear.

Sean jerked in surprise, glaring down at the half-awake man. He opened his mouth to retort, but sighed at Christian's tousled dark locks and half-lidded eyes.

"No, never," he promised, pressing a kiss that he knew wouldn't be remembered to the other man's temple. "Goodnight."

"Night," Christian returned, and the room feel silent once more.


End file.
